The Rhyming Man Affair
by MLaw
Summary: Solo, Kuryakin, and Mark Slate are off in search of kidnapped agent, April Dancer. Their only clues to her whereabout are cryptic rhymes left by her kidnapper. pre-saga
1. Chapter 1

Alexander Waverly huffed his impatience while looking periodically at the clock on his conference room wall and across the table to the figure seated there.

Agent Mark Slate nervously shifted his weight in his chair, pulling at his shirt collar. "Sir, I apologize. It's not like Miss Dancer to be late for a briefing."

"Indeed young man. We'll give her a few more minutes."

Once the time had eked by Waverly reached for the microphone on his console; flicking one of the toggle switches.

"Security sir."

"Can you locate Miss Dancer for me please?"

"Yes sir...one moment." A few seconds of silence passed." Miss Dancer is not in the building. Reception said she never picked up her ID badge this morning."

"Thank you," the Old Man looked perplexed as he switched off the microphone.

"Thoughts Mr. Slate?"

"No sir. I'm at a loss. I saw her yesterday when she was leaving headquarters. She said she had a date and wanted to get home early to get ready for it."

"Do you know who she was seeing?"

Waverly's brow furrowed, pulling his bushy eyebrows together...oddly looking like a giant hairy caterpillar stretched out across his forehead and Mark forced himself not to snicker at the imagery.

"I believe it was Roberto Ruiz from the Intelligence Section."

Waverly reached for his intercom," Miss Rogers please have Agent Ruiz from Intelligence report to me immediately.

Moments later the pneumatic doors to the conference room silently opened and in walked a handsome dark-haired man. He was well dressed in a fitted grey suit and was adjusting his tie, before seconds after shooting his cuffs.

"Yes sir Mr. Waverly, you wanted to see me?"

"It has come to my attention that you may have had a date last night with Miss Dancer, is this correct?"

"Wow, word travels fast in this place...umm, excuse me sir. Yes Miss Dancer and I went out to dinner at Sardis, and afterwards we took a carriage ride through Central Park. " Ruiz eyes went wide," Am I in trouble sir. I didn't think there was a problem dating other employees."

"And after your carriage ride where did you go?" Mark bluntly asked.

"I took Miss Dancer home….that was around midnight. She told me she had an early morning briefing and couldn't be out too late. Is there something wrong?"

"We're not sure, "Slate answered. " I don't think she would have overslept sir, that's not like April...umm, Miss Dancer."

"Precisely," Waverly grabbed his mic again, contacting Security for a second time and asked them to check on Miss Dancer, whose apartment was only a block from headquarters.

Fifteen minutes later a light lit up on Waverly's console, indicating an incoming communication.

"What do you have to report?" He asked, somehow knowing it was Security.

"Sir we're at Miss Dancer's apartment. It's been broken into and is pretty disheveled. There's no sign of her sir."

Mark's face blanched, looking at the Old Man with concern.

"Thank you. I want a thorough canvassing of the apartment building and the area. Report your findings to me as soon as possible. Waverly out."

"Miss Dancer is missing sir?" Ruiz asked.

'Hmmm yes, apparently so. You're dismissed Mr. Ruiz."

"Sir I'd like to help in the search if I could?

"Mr. Slate, will that be satisfactory with you...he is, after all, not accustomed to field work?" Waverly looked to his British agent

"Fine with me sir, I can use all the help I can get." Mark rose from his chair, heading to the door, with Agent Ruiz bringing up the rear.

"Mr. Slate," Waverly called after him,"Report to me…"

"Yes sir, I know a.s.a.p.." Mark nodded before disappearing through the doors with Ruiz beside him.

"So you been dating April long?" Mark asked.

"A few months now, why?"

"Oh just curious' she only mentioned you to me recently."

Before the two men even left the building, they were stopped at reception and told to return to the conference room.

As soon as they walked in, Tom Lopaka the Chief of Security was seated beside Mr. Waverly. In front of the Old Man was a white piece of paper with a neatly typed message that read...

_"**Now I lay me down to sleep,**_

_**I pray the Lord my soul to keep,**_

_**April may die before she wakes,**_

_**Unless a ransom is mine to take."**_

It was signed,_ **"The Rhyming Man"**_

_**.**_

"A poor bit of poetry to say the least," Waverly's demeanor remained cool and collected."Gentleman, you are well aware that it is U.N.C.L.E. policy not to barter for their agents under such circumstances."

"Yes sir," Mark nodded, "But we're not going to let them kill her sir, whoever they are?"

"Absolutely not Mr. Slate. Security was able to capture on camera the face of the person who delivered this message, as well as a license plate number...sadly that is coming up on file as stolen."

Waverly clicked a switch, lowering the video screen from the ceiling.

The image fading into view was of a nondescript scrawny man wearing heavy horn-rimmed glasses, thought the image of his face was not clear. They watched as he scurried down the short flight of steps at the entrance to Del Floria's and taped an envelope to the door. He hurried back up the stairs to a waiting car...and drove off, heading west. Security Cameras at the end of the block near the Mask Club showed an agent quickly exiting the building, attaching something to the rear of the car.

"A tracking device?" Mark asked.

"Precisely Mr. Slate," Messrs. Solo and Kuryakin are following close by….


	2. Chapter 2

Solo and Kuryakin followed the car they were tailing at a discreet distance until it slowed to a stop, parking in front of a neatly appointed brownstone in the vicinity of Washington Square Park.

They pulled up behind it, and watched as the driver walked across the sidewalk, up a flight of stairs leading to the front door. He withdrew a key from his pocket after nervously looking around himself before opening the door and slipping inside.

"That's our cue," Napoleon said, as he and his partner exited the car; heading after their quarry.

They took the stairs in just a few steps, and while Solo blocked the view, Kuryakin quickly picked the lock.

They walked inside, not making a sound and were surprised to find nothing; not a stick of furniture nor a painting on the wall.

Solo pointed to the back hall indicating he would search there, while the Russian, being light on his feet, would head upstairs.

After searching they came up with empty handed. The little weasel had disappeared...there was no backdoor, no trap doors they could find. It was as if he'd vanished into thin air.

"Not possible," Illya said, running his fingers through his blond hair in frustration.

"We'll get a team here and have them the place apart one stick of wood at a time if we have to," Solo growled.

"Open Channel-D, Waverly."

"Yes Mr. Solo your report," the Old Man replied without a trace of emotion in his voice.

"We've lost him sir."

"What the deuce?" This time Waverly's voice went up in pitch. "There was a signal the entire time and his car stopped near Washington Square, how the devil could you lose him Mr. Solo?"

"The car stopped in front of a brownstone, we followed the man inside and...well he disappeared sir. We can't figure out how he could have gotten past us. Maybe he hasn't and is still here...I suggest a crew to take the place apart."

"One is being dispatched as we speak. Mr. Slate will be there momentarily along with a Security team. Report to me as soon as soon as possible. Out."

Slate and five agents arrived and began to knock holes in the walls and rip up floors, until they found something unexpected under a floorboard.

"Hallo, what do we have here?" Mark said, holding up another envelope addressed to U.N.C.L.E. He opened it without hesitation.

Same neatly typed characters and another badly written rhyme.

"_**Three blind mice, three blind mice,**_

_**See how they run, see how they run,**_

_**They all ran off to save a life**_

_**but got their heads cut off with a carving knife,**_

_**Did you ever see such a thing in your life**_

_**As three blind mice?"**_

Solo, Kuryakin and Slate looked at each other in bewilderment, when they all heard a strange whirring noise.

"Lookout!" Illya shouted, pulling the others out of the way as a spinning circular blade swept across from a wall to where they'd been standing. If they hadn't ducked in time, they would have all been beheaded.

"Everyone out!" Napoleon shouted, "This place could be full of traps."

Just as they all made it out to the street below, there was a rumble. The windows blew outwards in a loud explosion, sending shards of glass, flames and smoke billowing from the building, knocking them all to the ground.

When Napoleon stood, pulling Illya up first followed by Mark; the brownstone was fully engulfed in flames.

Several agents were injured by the flying glass, though not seriously but still, a medical team was dispatched along with the fire department.

Solo shook his head as they leaned against the little green car still parked there.

"It was nothing but a trap...but why?" He asked.

"I am as perplexed as you my friend," Illya answered.

"Will you look at that...there's another envelope inside the car," Mark tapped Solo on the shoulder.

As the Brit reached for the door handle, Illya stopped him

"It might be booby trapped Mark, best we get a bomb squad here, to investigate first.

Forty-five minutes later the car had been deemed clear, and Slate opened the door, removing the next envelope.

"_**Sing a song of sixpence a pocket full of guns,**_

_**Lots of UNCLE agents just not having fun.**_

_**When the play was opened we all began to sing,**_

_**Oh wasn't it a dainty dish to set before the king?**_

_**The king was in his counting house counting out his money,**_

_**The queen was in the parlour feeling very glummy.**_

_**She was moved to the garden, and hung out with the clothes,**_

_**when down came a thrush bird and pecked off her nose!"**_

"What the bloody hell is this supposed to mean?" Slate was beginning to feel completely gutted. He was trying to control the awful feeling he had in the pit of his stomach, worrying about April.

"Clues Mark," Illya took the paper from him, examining it carefully. "Are they referencing a play? The nursery rhyme...King, Queen? Could it be T.H.R.U.S.H.? Bozhe moy...what does it all mean?" He was beginning to understand Slate's frustration.

Napoleon snapped his fingers," Say isn't there an Off-Broadway play that supposed to open tonight. It's called 'The Queen's Ransom.' It's a longshot but…"

"That's more to go on than we've had mate with these bloody poems."

Without further discussion, the agents climbed into their car, heading for the theatre district...


	3. Chapter 3

It was dark and in the wee hours of the morning by the time Mark, Napoleon and Illya pulled up in front of the Palace Theater. Supposedly set for the 'off-Broadway' opening of 'The Queen's Ransom'; the place was not what the agents expected. It was a bit on the seedy side and gave them a rather ominous feeling. Perhaps there wasn't a real play after all and this was simply a trap set by this rhyming man fellow.

They knew they were in the right place when the saw a poster of a woman dressed in a regal gown bearing a strong resemblance to April Dancer.

Mark Slate paused for a moment staring at the poster, a look of worry filled his face.

"Don't worry Mark, we'll find her," Napoleon reassured him.

Finding the entrance unlocked, the British agent led the way into the small lobby with Solo while Illya headed down an outside alleyway in search of the back door.

Mark signalled as he opened the theatre doors; he and Napoleon split up and the two men headed down the side aisles, making their way towards the darkened stage.

The ceiling was low, lower than one would have expected, and was covered with decorative tin panels, turned dark with age.

The house lights were set low, and just as they neared the stage, a spotlight came on, illuminating a heavy red velvet curtain. A voice echoed.

"_**And so our tale it finally ends, you've guessed the clues my UNCLE friends. Alas you're late to save the Queen; to get you all has been my scheme."**_

The curtains opened slowly, revealing April Dancer kneeling on a raised platform, dressed in a low-cut billowing burgundy velvet gown in the style of the Elizabethan era. She was blindfolded and beside her was standing a diminutive man wearing a black executioners hood over his head and in his hands was a vicious looking curved battle axe.

"Who the bloody hell are you?" Mark snarled.

"Mark darling? It's a trap...get out of here!" April cried out.

"No luv we're here to save you!"

"We?" April desperately turned her head left and right, hoping to loosen the blindfold but during the conversation she was discreetly working to free herself of the ropes binding her wrists. The heavy costume and spotlight were making her perspire, helping her to slip her hands free.

"Yes me _and _Napoleon."

"Where is Kuryakin?" The voice angrily called out in the darkness. Inspite of the size of the theatre, the acoustics were excellent, but gave the agents no clue as to where the rhyming man actually stood.

"Sorry to disappoint," Napoleon called out,"but Mr. Kuryakin was sent on another pressing assignment."

"Really?" April said, acting rather miffed. "I may have to have a little talk with him after this, and Mr. Waverly too."

"May we ask again, just who are you?" Napoleon called out, stalling for time.

"You don't recognize my voice?"

"Sorry it's just not that memorable."

"Wait a tick," Mark said, tapping his temple with his index finger.'

"You're Archibald MacBeth!" The Brit blurted out.

"Who?" Napoleon whispered out of the side of his mouth.

"A few years ago...he was that wannabe Section II agent drummed out by Harry Beldon because of his obsessive behavior. He disappeared before they were able to deprogram him. Obviously he's holding a grudge against U.N.C.L.E.'s top agents."

"Which explains the obsessive rhyming I suppose," Solo remarked. His his memory jogged; Napoleon recalled a gangly man with hawkish features.

"_**Enough of your idle chatter, what you say does not flatter. The time has come to kill the queen, and you'll follow her out in the very next scene!"**_

The small headsman pushed April forward; her head coming to rest atop a chopping block. That move prompted both agents to aim at him, readying to shoot, but unexpectedly there was loud hum and their guns were violently ripped from their hands and flying out into the air, disappearing from their view.

"_**Handy things magnets be, now prepare yourselves for a death to see**_." MacBeth laughed. " Now!" He signalled the axeman.

It was with split second timing that April threw herself out of reach, having gotten her hands free. The momentum of the axe brought it to rest, embedded into the block, forcing the executioner to struggle to free it but without success.

He suddenly stiffened, falling down to the platform, and once April's view was cleared, she spotted Kuryakin stepping onto the stage.

"_**Ahhh you lied you lied, the Russian hath arrived!"**_ MacBeth called.

Illya suddenly stumbled forward, pulling a dart from his own neck before he collapsed.

Napoleon and Mark made a beeline for the stage, but the American didn't make it as he too fell victim to a dart landing in his bicep.

Slate scrambled into the shadows to hide himself, watching his partner move to Kuryakin's side. April grabbed Illya's weapon; disappearing backstage. There she ripped off the heavy costume, leaving her in her lacey unmentionables and barefoot, but able to move with more ease. Like her partner she sought the safety of the darkness.

"April," Mark called out," Wherever you are, stay put, and don't answer me luv." He then moved before MacBeth could zero in on his whereabouts.

"_**Come out come out wherever you are, it's time for me to make you a star,"**_ Archibald called. His voice sounded as if he were moving, and Slate listened carefully as the acoustics changed. Mark quietly sighed as this rhyming thing was wearing a bit thin.

The British agent moved down to the orchestra pit, keeping himself out of sight as the voice neared.

"_**Come come Mr. Slate, your end is near. The writing on the wall is oh so clear. Get it over with, why make it last...you must admit it'll be a blast.**_

Archibald MacBeth was now standing just above Mark, and he could see the beady-eyed bugger quite clearly dressed completely in black.

He appeared as Slate remembered him, tall...lanky with thinning dark hair. Not exactly a fine physical specimen. It was amazing the man made his way through Survival School.

MacBeth took one step forward but without warning he disappeared from Marks view with an '_ooof'._

Slate stood up, seeing his partner straddling the man, pummeling the snot out of him with Illya's Walther.

As Archibald pushed April off him, he rolled over and raised his fist to retaliate. Mark dove into the fracas, slamming his foot into the man's head and knocking him out cold.

"No you don't mate!"

As MacBeth collapsed, Slate reached out his hand, helping April to rise and without saying a word, he removed his tweed jacket, giving it to her to cover up herself.

"Thanks for coming to my rescue partner," she leaned over, giving him a peck on the cheek.

"I reckon you did a fair bit of rescuing yourself luv," he smiled. "I was just your backup."

"Well let's make sure our friend doesn't reawaken on us," April said, darting him for good measure. "So should we call for medical assistance from headquarters for the boys or should we just load them into your car….I think MacBeth would fit nicely into the trunk," she laughed.

"Sounds good to me, " Mark agreed. He proceeded to drag Solo and Kuryakin outside to their car still parked curbside, and lastly getting the unconscious body of Archibald MacBeth tucked away along with his dwarfish companion; Mark waited for his partner. The sun was well up now and people were out on the streets, going about their business.

A few passersby gave him questioning looks as they saw the passed-out men in the car.

"Ummmm, the playwrights didn't handle getting bad reviews in the previews very well." He pointed up to the unlit marquee, and gestured the universal symbol for drinking.

Satisfied, the curious onlookers walked away.

April appeared looking a bit disheveled and tired after her ordeal; now she was dressed in clothing that was obviously not hers, a bit loose fitting for her taste but at least she was decent. She handed her partner his jacket.

"All set darling?"

"Righto. MacBeth and his little friend are in the boot, and the lads are sound asleep in the back seat. Shall we head home my dear?"

"Gladly Mark. Hmm Mr. Waverly is going to want a detailed report on this one."

"Just exactly how did he get you April?"

"As I was leaving my apartment to go to headquarters there was a small child sitting on the curb...crying his eyes out. He spoke to me in rhymes...but I didn't think anything of it at the time. There was no adult around, so I thought he was lost. When I knelt down to speak to him everything went black. I know now it was our diminutive executioner masquerading as a little boy."

Slate flashed a toothy grin to his partner. "_**All's well that ends well, I suppose will suffice for now... though how to deal with Waverly will make an interesting tell."**_

April rolled her eyes, appearing none too happy.

"Mark dear, I've had enough of _that_ for now and by the way... don't quit your day job."


End file.
